Brothers
by Nitroglycerin18
Summary: When Ethan is picked at the reaping in his district while Cal, volunteers from his own district that stole away too, the two brothers are tested in every way, exploring their relationship and how they handle needing to survive the games. Both are left to question their past and come to terms with their future all the while, remembering that only one can win the games. Please review
1. Prologue

Prologue

He was nearly there. Panting, burning, pulsing. But he was nearly there. He had to get to the house. Ethan was there. And so was _he_. He could see it emerging on the long street where neighbours were always looking at you in a paradoxical way, both as if you had something precious for them and that you were the cause of all their problems. As soon as he got close to the house, Cal outstretched his arms to shove open the loose door. It took a heavy swing at the wall and he wasted no time in crashing through the house and up the stairs.

"Ethan!" He shouted as he burst his way through to the bedroom he knew was his brother's but was only met with the stale silence that clung to the walls of this place.

He charged his way through each door upstairs, calling out for Ethan to answer him, and each time he remained alone. Sweat slipped its way down his forehead and clung to his wrists and arms, making his palms damp as he clenched and unclenched his fists. His head whirled with a throbbing panic. Suddenly, through the fog of his fury, the crash of glass shattering to the ground echoed its way to Cal, and he knew. He was here.

Cal bolted his way back down the steps and towards the kitchen, no longer calling for Ethan. He tried to calm himself down, to gather some inch of a plan. But as he stood beside the door he heard the faint whimpering that made the fears that he woke from in a cold sweat at night smash into reality. His knees buckled, face blanched with dread he leaned on the door and as if defeated, gladly swung open and Cal stumbled into the scene of his horror. Ethan was curled into the tiniest of balls in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by smeared handprints of blood, his skin a sickly grey and blotched with swelling and contusions. Cal felt his stomach churn with incredible force and smothered his mouth before he could vomit. His eyes were rolling from the nausea and it was then that he noticed him there. Drunk and clinging to the handle of the back door. His right arm had drooped to his side as if his to relieve his bloody knuckles from the exertion of being held up.

With eyes stinging and heart pounding in his reddened ears, Cal hit him. He hit him. Again and again. Until he stopped moving and his last noise was a squeal like that from a pig going to slaughter.

He walked through the streets, his little brother cradled in his arms. Cal wouldn't take his eyes off of him, not until he came to a crossroad and had to think where he was going. What he was going to do. Every so often Ethan would let out a harsh snort of breath which would make him stop but Ethan never seemed to move from the safety position he built around Cal; legs curled tightly around Cal's left arm while his back barely leaned into his right arm, as he managed to twist himself so that his forehead was pushing against Cal's chest as if it would somehow alleviate an ounce of the agony he was in. His eyes were clenched shut and he never stopped clutching his middle. Cal had tried to get a response from him but he wouldn't speak, couldn't speak, but the way the ends of his fingers eventually clung to Cal's t-shirt while still nursing his stomach with the rest of his hand told Cal that he was still there, he was still Ethan.

On Ethan's next groan and Cal's last stop, the adrenaline that had been his only strength vanished and he collapsed in the street still cradling Ethan. He thought at this moment that, right now, this would be the moment he would look back on years later and think he had done it, he'd finished it all. But instead, as he went to look once more on the shadowed figure of his brother, he noticed his own hands, shaking violently beneath his brother, the bloody fingertips that clung to the boy in his arms. He immediately lay Ethan down on the ground, and brought his own, damned hands to his face.

What had he done?

The knees of an old man came into Cal's view and without even looking up he whispered "Help me."

With that the old man scooped Ethan into his arms and Cal followed.

He wouldn't cross the old man's threshold. As they came to the door, Cal looked down once more at his own bloodied and bruised hands. The old man had placed Ethan gently on a sofa that Cal could see from the doorway and the old man was looking back at Cal with the kind of eyes that knew all that you could ever have tried to hide.

"Take care of him." And with that, Cal was gone.


	2. Chapter 1

The mornings are always cold, no matter what the season, in this little shack we called home. Yet the sharp sting of the early hours of winter's dawn always manage to chill the bone in such a way that it lasts the entire day, until once more you can curl your frozen toes under the blanket for the night. It's way too early to be up on a normal day. But today doesn't exactly qualify under those terms.

I slip my legs from the warm covers, painfully resisting the temptation to crawl back into bed and accepting the crisp, dry air as my morning wake up call, I get up. I force my muscles to comply against the aching cold and dart about my room dressing into my work clothes of a pair of old brown trousers that my legs are easily too long for and a white shirt that has turned grey from use.

I don't know how many times my name has been in the bowl. The old man's oblivious trust means that I take extra rationing and put my name in more times than he knows. He also thinks we get by on what he brings. I glance back into my room as I shut the door, wondering if I'll sleep here tonight. I tiptoe across the hall to Butterman's room where the door is open ajar as it always is and peek my head around the corner. The old man lies flat on his back, mouth wide open and one hand resting on his concave torso.

I've lived with Butterman for five years, since I was twelve, sort of like his adopted son, but I don't remember filling in any paperwork or anything. So we just live together. He's a kind enough old man though some avoid him because they think him too odd and they could do without that kind of trouble. It's not really his oddities that put people off, if anything they're some entertainment to make you forget you're starving. What makes them leave a little sooner than politeness allows, is this hopelessly dazed look he gets, as if his mind is so empty that it allows the constant fog that lingers in the streets to seep into his own head.

I slowly back out of the room and make for the kitchen, well what's supposed to be a kitchen. It's the same with every room in this house. None are ever quite what they were designed for. Even the bedrooms are really only two halves of the same room. Despite my protesting, mine is the one with the bigger bed. Butterman wouldn't have it any other way.

I shove on my muddy boots that sit at the door and wiggle my toes back to life. I reach for my working jacket that's had its pockets torn off and small holes are forming in the armpits. Something in my peripheral vision makes me stop and I know what it is before I even move my head. The one good coat hanging on the rack that Butterman bought me for my birthday. It's thick and smooth material is coloured a deep brown and it flows lusciously down to my knees. I know it had to have cost a heavy price but the fact that Butterman didn't tell me what he had traded for it made me worry. He would always tell me anything if I asked him. Well, almost anything.

I glance back at the door leading upstairs just in case he was there, before quickly snatching it off of its hook and cocooning myself in its fuzzy warmth. It weighs heavily on my shoulders but I don't mind.

Tucking the collar up over my ears and pulling my hands up further into the safety of the sleeves, I creep out of the house.

As I walk down the streets, the sun has become higher and its shadowy warmth has started to filter through, though I can still feel my body ripping through the cool veil of winter air, my coat the last source of heat left in this little district and I smile a little.

The streets are empty aside from one or two individuals sitting on a porch step or hanging out the washing to get it all done before the reaping at two.

I walk further into the district, past the main mine worker's houses and right down to the cinder streets near the black market where the inhabitants don't have to walk far from their home to their latest addictions.

Slowly I reach the house I'm looking for and follow my old footprints inside. There are only two things you can rely on of this house; it's never locked and it's always dark.

Laid out for me already is the usual scattering of empty bottles followed by the shameless sprawl of a figure passed out in their own vomit bringing with it the thick smell of human waste. I glance at the coat hook by the door but resolutely decide to keep my coat moulded onto my body before going to kneel down to the figure and pull them up out of their spew.

"Come on, mum." I tell her as she groans against my help.

"Come on," I lean her against the wall and her head just lolls from side to side as she continues to groan.

I go in search of the cloth I know I cleaned yesterday and wet it in the sink. By the time I get to her again she's reached for another bottle and slurping loudly at the contents.

"Would you just stop that? Ten minutes is all I need!" I yell at her but she's gone, deep in the intoxication of her own making.

I try to pull the bottle from her hand but she clings to it like a feverish wolf to the last quivering sheep. I can feel the heat rise in my cheeks and all the patience I had prepared myself with dropped in an instant. I fling my arms at her and yank the damned thing from her vice-like grip.

"I said enough!"

For a second I thought I'd gotten through to her, past the drunken slur of her mind and tapped into the conscience she buried long ago. I was wrong. She'd simply paused to gather a good enough swing to slap her bony hand across my cheek – hard. The shock and sheer force of her action means I hit the ground, spilling the contents of the bottle all around me until it looks like a pool of my own blood. For a minute my mind stops. Focussing just on the pool, only to be brought back by the sound of my mother sobbing behind me. I wish I could say I didn't know whether she was crying for me or the bottle. But it was the bottle. It will always be the bottle.

"I'll clean that up." I say and get to my feet in search of an old towel that I know she must have.

By the time I've mopped up the liquid, she's stopped crying so I move on to wiping her face of vomit and slowly help her to the sofa in the living room. I was going to dress her today but, it would seem she has other plans and I didn't have time. I lay her down and place a blanket over her body before going back to the kitchen and clearing away the bottles.

I get a few funny looks from her neighbours as I take armfuls of bottles out into the bin. I'm pretty sure they think I'm a burglar or something.

I doubt anyone will recognise me though as I was so small and puny when I lived here. I've bulked out a lot since my malnourished days and actually look borderline healthy thanks to Butterman's close relations to some of the peacekeepers. I'm pretty sure my face has changed quite a lot since then too. I used to have prominent cheek bones and shading over some part of my features but now my cheeks are plump with just a strong jaw to outline my face. Though this is testament to Butterman sacrificing his own portions so that I can have plenty.

And of course there's my glasses. Butterman found that I needed glasses when I was thirteen, although I had always just presumed I couldn't see right because of some lasting brain damage. He found a Peacekeeper getting rid of his old glasses for scrap and gave them to Butterman. With a few adjustments here and there they came to belong to me. This is also why people look at me around here. It was seen as quite the privilege to own something as good as glasses.

Which is why when I snuck out once, years before I'd developed any stealth, and came strolling down this way to my duties I was mugged of them. It was when I was younger and still had my skinny features and the darkness under my eyes. A man ripped them straight off of my face and took off without a backward glance. I don't really remember what the man looked like, the only distinctive feature was the nauseating smell that came with him. But my eyesight is that bad everything was completely blurred, I couldn't see anything in front of my face and before I knew it I felt searing pain in my head and was sprawled out on the floor before I blacked out.

The next time I woke up I was back in Butterman's place with a bandage around my head and glasses on my face. I don't know how I got back or how my glasses were returned but I put it all down to Butterman even though he's never spoken of it. At first I thought it would hurt him to find out I had gone back to see my mother but if it did, it never showed. And he never spoke of it. He saw to it that I was alright and no questions were asked from either of us, as neither of us really needed an answer.

I go back inside and make up the fire in the living room, which takes a while but the effect of having just that little fire on in this cold house is instant. I can feel my mum watching me as I fix the fire but she must have grown tired at some point as when I turn around, she's asleep. Visiting time was up.

I decide to make my way slowly back to Butterman's as the district starts to come to life. Like a switch has been pressed and now all of the little cogs in a big machine have begun to turn, weighing down the air with ominous intentions.

By the time I get back, Butterman is up and preparing us both some soup. I come in and take off my coat which I instantly regret as the cold air slams hard into my lungs. I go and sit down at the table knowing that he won't ask me about it, or where I've been, or the red mark I can feel tingling on my skin. He's stopped asking me that now because he knows I don't like lying to anyone let alone him. We've never said it out loud but I think he knows I go to her house. Ever since that time my glasses were stolen, he knew. Neither of us says it though, not wanting to hurt the other and yet we both know that we both know where I go. Butterman sits down opposite me with two bowls of soup and two small rolls or bread that have just started to burn at the edges.

I look at him amazed as he pushes one to me.

"Where did you get those from?" I exclaim.

"The baker. Who else am I going to get bread from?" he jokes and all uneasiness of the morning passes just like it always does.

"How can you afford them?" I look back at my coat and feel the guilt rise in my throat like bile.

"Peacekeeper sold me some of his scrap the other day, good scrap it was. An old watch that's hand had stopped and face was smashed. I sold it to the baker who, in payment, gave me these."

"Thank you, sir" I tell him and he frowns a little at me. He's told me on many occasions I shouldn't call him sir but he knows I won't stop. I made a joke of it once and called him 'ma'am' instead which had us both laughing. But even after that I didn't stop calling him sir. He seems worthy enough of the title for me. Besides, I have nothing else to call him.

I smile at him and he smiles back and we both go on to tucking into our soup.

I've finished mine before him but I sit and wait and watch him as he takes careful spoons of soup, blowing on each one before sipping it between his old and cracked lips. Compared to him I practically inhaled mine and immediately regret taking it for advantage, the soup. I didn't savour it. The thought has my head turning to my coat that I also didn't savour for him. I vow from then on to take better care of it. I would only wear it when he said I could like the original deal.

"I have something for you." He looks at me with eager eyes before pulling a small box from under the table and pushing it towards me.

Butterman's always doing this. He always gives me odd little presents that are really just bits of scrap from his yard. But he picks the bits that he thinks I'll find interesting or bits that seem to fit together so that I can make something out of them. I never really enjoyed doing it much but I could never tell Butterman. He always has this half-fogged up goofy smile on his face when he gives me each dose. So I always accept them gratefully and try with all my might to be interested in them.

I look down at the box and open it with a fake smile. There are some lose bits and bobs; odd cogs and some rods, a few rubber bands, a nail and something that I don't know what it is. Altogether quite a good collection that might get you something on the black market. Of course Butterman would never permit me to go to the black market never mind sell the gift he thinks I love. I have been once though, to the black market. When I was living with Mum. It wasn't a good place. The most I can remember of it was the smell of sweat and decay from the people inside, and it was too warm from some of the broths being sold that stayed in your senses for days.

"Thank you. Sir." I say and turn a few of the pieces over in my hand and try to be interested.

"So?" he asks eagerly. I look at him blankly.

"What are you going to make?" he presses me, and he's practically sweating with excitement. He's perhaps having one of his turns and I want to control it before the reaping in case he dazes off and forgets himself in front of a Peacekeeper.

"Let me make you some tea, sir."

"Later boy, later. Now, what are you going to make?" he says in a gentle tone as if his whispers could smoothly delve out my thoughts and he'll know exactly what is going through my mind, what world I'm creating.

I stare at the contents again and try to think of something clever you can make, in fact anything you can make out of scraps.

"I suppose I could make a sort of catapult." Was my answer. That had been my answer to the first box of scrap he ever gave me when all I really wanted to do was fling stuff. He didn't look very pleased and sort of deflated in his chair as if my lack of imagination had physically beaten him. I try to rekindle our morning, with something.

"Then I can do this." And I grabbed his spoon and flicked a pea that remained in his bowl straight onto his face. I wasn't much of a shot so I surprised myself when it hit him square in the nose, splattering little drops of soup on his cheeks. He explodes into this roar of a laugh and I join in before we both agree that that will be the last laugh until we both returned to this little shack.

We take it in turns to bathe in the small metal tub in front of the fire in the living room. Washing our hair, scrubbing our nails and hands and feet, then getting changed into our best clothes. For me that is a pair of good, brown trousers that go right down to my shoes, and a white shirt, well close enough to white as it's going to get. The red mark on my face isn't as noticeable anymore and if I tilt my head in certain directions you can't see it all.

After a while Butterman hands me my coat and I can't help but brush down a little of the dirt that flew onto it when I was in the house. I put it on again and feel its immediate warmth envelope me. Butterman seems pleased with my reaction to the coat and smiles as we both head out of the door. It's not far to square but people have already started to file in smoothly while the finishing touches are just being put on the stage. I wait in line to have my finger pricked before standing with the boys in my age group.

It's not long before the square is packed full of people. I spot Butterman standing at the side with the other parents, staring at the stage and waiting.

There's a quiet hum of noise across the square with people whispering to each other.

"Jesus Christ its cold. Couldn't they have done it in the summer like the last ones?"

I smile before turning to my left to see Jed standing next to me, his winter coat barely still whole. I don't know if you can call me and Jed friends. We sit near each other in lessons and only really talk to gibe at the other one or at the school or anything. Once when my glasses fell off my face, he stopped someone from standing on them. To this day I still don't know whether that was out of kindness or from not wanting to see something of good value get crushed. From then on we sort of just got stuck with each other. We both keep our eyes ahead as we continue with our usual jeering.

"Not as cold as your heart." I whisper back.

"Oh you hurt me Ethan, genuinely hurt me." He says in mock surprise and an exaggerated hand on his chest.

"It could have been worse. I could have commented on that hair."

"What's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing if you're trying to look like that dog over there." I nod towards an old ragged dog lying down next to an old man's feet at the side. Its fur is matted and black with small curls lifting off its back. An exact replica of Jed's hair.

"Point taken."

We're all hushed as Effie Trinket walks on stage wearing one of her infamous wigs with a garish dress to match. Today's theme: purple and puffy.

"Welcome, welcome." She begins in a sickly sweet voice that dances on through the air until its ringing in your ears. She talks for a while about her excitement then we watch the same clip as we have done every reaping but I'm not really listening. My mind has wandered back to the dog and I contemplate whether I'd be so cruel as to wish our roles were reversed. I don't really listen until she's thrust her hand in the bowl and has already produced a name out for the girls.

"Georgina Fairweather." A tense silence follows, before the shuffling of shoes and a girl, no older than fifteen slowly makes her way out through the crowd of people. I'm quite far away but even through the thicket of people I can see her shaking with fear. She walks slowly to the stage, wearing an outfit that she probably wore to the last reaping as it barely fit her still and long dark hair that reached the base of her back.

"Poor sod." I hear Jed remark but I don't say anything back. Jed wasn't afraid of the wrath of the Peacekeepers but I was and I didn't want to be caught talking to someone that may or may not have value in my life.

I try and concentrate on Georgina. She stares back at the crowd once on stage and her lip begins to tremble so Effie quickly moves onto the boys, not wanting her district to seem weaker than it already is. She thrusts her hand down into the second bowl and makes a grand show of undoing the fastener and reading the name carefully. Just one name.

And it's mine.

"Ethan Hardy."

I hear Jed curse next to me, under his breath and place a comforting hand on my shoulder. But then he has to pull it away and let me go. He doesn't volunteer as I know no one will. Sure you feel sorry for who gets picked, and even worse if you like them, but better them than you. You have your own problems to deal with, like what you're going to feed your family in a few hours time.

Slowly I make my way through the crowd and to the stage. Once I'm up though, I don't want to turn around. I don't want to have to face them on a shallow promise that I will fight to win for our district. Everyone knows I'm a goner. I can't fight. I'm probably the worst person for this actually. Maybe my bruise will help me to look tougher though, maybe get some more sponsors. But when I turn around all I see is their pity. That's even worse because it makes me want to scream and I know now is not the time to start acting out of turn. Instead I focus on not looking in Butterman's direction. I don't know if I should look at Jed or not but when my eyes glance his way, I see his focus shifts from Georgina to the floor in regular intervals telling me he doesn't want to look either. I sift through the crowd but none are able to hold my gaze. So I'm back with the dog. The dog understands, and he doesn't look away.

I didn't even know Effie was talking until she was finished and some Peacekeepers were trying to usher me into the justice building.

They shove me into a small room and I sit down on the sofa. Waiting. I don't know what to think, what to know and not know, what to do and not do. I know this part is where they fetch my family so that they can say goodbye. I sit there, numb, waiting. I should be thinking all kinds of things, I should be in a state of total shock and despair. But I'm not. I just sort of sit there. I sit there and wait. I subconsciously wrap my arms around my coat as if waiting for someone to rip it from my back.

I'm not waiting for much longer before the door opens and Butterman bursts through, out of breath as if he's been running. He probably spaced out again and has only just realised what to do. I've barely stood up before the old man has his arms swung around me and clutching me in his own grief. I know then, in that embrace what I was thinking; what had my mind so preoccupied. I couldn't think of anything else.

"I thought she'd come. I thought she'd care." I whisper into his shoulder and he lets out a sigh, holding me until I felt safe enough there to give in and lean my whole body on his.

"Everything will be alright." He tells me and suddenly I'm glad it's him. I'm glad he's the last one I have to say goodbye to.

He reluctantly pulls back from the embrace and digs his hand into his pocket, fetching out the box of scrap he'd given to me this morning and shoves it into my hands.

"For the train ride." He says and then Peacekeepers come and take him out of my life before I can even say the one thing that I've wanted to say to him since I was twelve and first rolled off of his sofa. So instead, I stand alone in the odd smelling office, clutching the box, and tell it to no one.

"Thank you."


	3. Chapter 2

The train ride is stagnant. Georgina and I barely exchange glances. Our mentor is introduced to us in his full drunken state and the homely reminder lodges a wad of bile in my throat. Effie doesn't stop talking the whole ride there. And me, I remain in my same unmoving position, buttocks welded to the heat of the sticky leather of my seat, face determinedly fixed on the box resting on my lap, clutched between my sweaty palms. They seem to have turned the train into the sun in order to compensate for the bitter cold of the outside, so now everything has the appearance of a layer of gloss from its own perspiration.

Of course Butterman would give me this of all things before I went off to my death. No words of encouragement or even last minute release of unconditioned affection. Some kind of monologue convincing me of my worth. No. I got a box of scrap. I can feel myself getting more irritated with every jolt the train makes.

Effie tries to engage both me and Georgina into some conversation but Georgina keeps bursting into tears and I keep on ignoring everything but my little box.

"Well this is ... delightful" Effie trifles out, bumbling through the silent swirls of heated breath circling around the train. Effie and Haymitch sit opposite us while someone pours us glasses of patronising champagne in which only Haymitch and Effie seem interested.

"Haymitch, don't you want to welcome our tributes?" Effie tries giving the drunken man a nudge in his seat which backfires as his grip loosens on his champagne flute and the shimmering liquid slops onto his lap. He looks from his lap to Effie then to us. Everything about his movements is slowed and slurred. He reaches out and grabs my champagne.

"Welcome aboard" he salutes and swallows the contents in one exaggerated gulp.

"This is good stuff." He stands up but not before turning to me.

"I'd drink up while you can. It's the only fun you're going to get."

My eyes become caught on his, both of us judging the other for what they are worth to us.

Neither of us is satisfied.

"Nonsense Haymitch!" Effie bats. We both ignore her.

"I don't drink." I state, still holding his stare. Haymitch lets out a snort and shakes his particularly glossy mane.

"Trust me, you do." And he stumbles his way out of the cart and into what I can assume is his part of the train. Leaving us alone, with Effie.

"He's just …." Effie tries to think of some kind of excuse for Haymitch's state but from the look of him he's never apologised for anything in his life so no one else stands a chance.

"He's well …." Effie looks us both in the eye, and I'm guessing she sees some form of intelligence because she simply states, "You get used to him."

We must have been on the train for hours as it starts to go dark outside. Georgina stopped crying a while ago and now only stares hopelessly out of the window. I still stare at my box. I was pretty happy to spend the rest of the ride there like that until suddenly Georgina lets out a gasp. Only this time it's not from excessive crying but of genuine excitement. I look over to where she's knelt up on her seat, desperately pushing her hands into the window.

'The first star!' she exclaims. Her breath has started to fog up the glass and she has to move her head to see around it like she's doing some crazy window dance. Then suddenly she closes her eyes, straightens her back and takes a deep breath.

"I wish I was at home." She sighs and then nudges me with her elbow.

"Go on Ethan. Make a wish. Come on."

I look back at her and then at the star and then back at the box I still clutched in my hands.

I feel stupid for even thinking about it. Everything about this train ride makes me feel stupid. It makes blind hope feel like such a stupid idea when everything in front of me is confirming the rational prospect that there is no hope where we are and definitely none where we are going, not for us. The heat, the persistent jolting, the niggling box in my hand have already wound me up to the point where Georgina's request of me is suddenly too much and I want to hurl out all bouts of realism to her just so that she'd stop.

But as I watch her, knees tucked into her chest with her too short and fraying dress revealing her skinny ankles and even skinnier arms wrapped all the way around them. Her long blonde her hair is staggered across her face where her eyes, possibly the only part of her that seem fully sized, were pleading with my own to share something with her that she could trust.

She was, as if all of a sudden, so young. So I give her a smile. It's half-hearted and limp but it's enough to keep her going as she turns back to the window and rests her chin on the window ledge.

The blunt sound of a body hitting the floor alerts both of us to the idea that the games have already begun and we quickly cross our cabin floor. The automatic doors whoosh open to reveal a drunk Haymitch passed out next to, not yet resting in, his own vomit. Georgina gasps and goes as if to comfort him but I put out my hand firmly in front of her chest.

"No. Go to bed. I'll clean up here." I'm used to this. She isn't. I grab the bucket that once held a full bottle of champagne and empty out the ice before kneeling beside Haymitch. I look up to see Georgina sill stood there. I realise then that I must have scared her rather than comforted her with my instructions. Force of habit.

"It's alright. He's alright. I can take care of him. Please go to bed." And then as she turned away, I don't know why I had to say it but the words were already out there before I could stop them.

"Dream something for me."

She stops and turns back, confused by my obviously strange favour.

"Dream of something – good." I could feel a fresh bout of heat and shame colour my skin when she, peculiarly, smiled and nodded as if she would, and went to make the short walk to her quarters.

I turn back to Haymitch.

"Come on Haymitch, come on." And I set to work cleaning him and the carpet. Every so often he'll mumble something which I'm pretty sure is abuse before slouching back into his limbo of unconsciousness. Once everything is as it should be, all that's left is to get him into his room. I grab a fistful of the ice I'd emptied earlier and shove it down the back of his shirt hoping it'll make his limbs more co-operative and not really having the energy for the gentle approach. He jolted upright and took a swing at my face but I managed to duck down in time. His arm movements were still fairly slow so I was able to hold his arms down in place while he took a minute to understand where we was.

"You're an interfering little goody two shoes aren't you." He states as he tries to pull himself up and continues to lean heavily on my support whilst I get him to his room. I take it he's not best pleased about the ice.

"I try my best," I humour him.

"No goody two shoes wins the games. Even the girl had the knack of survival and sense to leave me." I suppose living with Butterman all of these years has softened my immunity to the ungrateful reality of people.

"No wonder your mum got rid of you." He can't know that, not really, no one should know that. I pull at him harder so that we reach his room faster and I deposit him onto his bed.

"There, you've been left." And I leave.

…..

The sound of cheering and whistling drums the train to a stop and we've arrived.

"Come on, come on you two. Never leave the public waiting." I quickly shove my box under my coat just in case someone were to take it as contraband. I'm not sure why though, it may even have been nice to leave the burden behind.

As we exit the train we smile and wave as Effie has instructed and as I've seen those before us do when we would gather around the TV presentation screen in the local tavern. It was a wave of welcome to the capital and of goodbye to any friends or acquaintances at home unable to visit us one last time. I try not to be overwhelmed and only think about my imminent death that these people would get a kick from but it's hard when all you've known is how to scavenge for anything you could possibly need.

We're escorted pretty quickly to our quarters on the twelfth floor. It's huge. Probably the size of my whole street in District 12. All kinds of gadgets are lying around with expensive looking furniture, mainly glass, scattered around the place. What was strange was that most objects, though you could tell what they were, would bend or twist in a way that I'd never seen them do before. Everything looked as if it had been artificially sculptured to fit some kind of design even though it mainly just looked a mess with random things dotted in inconvenient places.

"Voila!" Exclaims Effie gesturing to the suite.

"And it's all yours" I can feel myself becoming overwhelmed again and I really don't want that to happen so I think again about death. Though it's clear that my mind has slowly become numb to the idea of the games and my inevitable failure to survive when a few minutes in, we're ushered by Effie into a new room which is spread out with all kinds of delicacies. Small savoury dishes and finger things of all different colours and smells are littered across a long table while smaller carts stacked with cakes and pastries are tucked away at the side of the sofas. I see Georgina's hand fly to her stomach and a smile crosses her face. It's hard to focus on anything Effie is saying when faced with more food than I've ever seen.

"Enjoy!" She exclaims and claps her hands together, most likely happy that she's finally got a reaction out of us that isn't crying or impartial.

We both grab a plate though its existence seems futile at first as we just shove whatever we pick up in our mouths. Georgina starts asking the names of all the different foods she's trying but it's useless as there are so many and the names are so complicated, so she returns, like me, to the state of blissful ignorance.

About ten minutes in and Effie leaves, so we become braver, more willing to experiment. We've developed a system of only nibbling whatever it is we pick up or only slurping a small spoonful of the mush, before deciding whether it's worthy or not of going on our plate. If it is then at least two good handfuls of it are scooped onto our ever growing piles of food.

Half an hour later and the threatening image of Effie is well and truly out of our minds, even the games seems to be just a faraway fog as we slip into a drunken state of hunger. Never having been faced with so much food before we start to get carried away, greedy and wasteful as we spill different soups and broths over half nibbled pies and breads. Dipping stained fingers into exotic sauces, we recommend different foods to each other and forcefully throw down the ones we don't like.

Georgina gives up the fight before I do which seems to fill me with some kind of phantom hope of my survival, then I realise she's been one step ahead of me and has simply taken a break on a plush sofa, where its purpose seems to be to comfort the deliriously full, before leaning over to inspect the desserts on the trays encompassing her. She picks up some kind of cake which oozes chocolate as she bites into it, wildly licking her lips, delighting herself in this foreign territory.

I immediately drop my plate and sink myself into one of the sofas, eyes flickering over every desert. I can already feel my stomach aching from too much food so I know I need to be choosey about which deserts I eat. There's a slice of cake with white icing and a yellow creamy middle that gives off the sweet scent of lemon. I've only ever had lemon once in my life but it was raw and bitter. I gingerly stroke my finger through the cream belly of the cake and lick it clean feeling the burst of lemon and cream on my tongue. I forget my rule of restraint and devour the whole piece and am about to go for seconds when the door slams open too hard and knocks over a stand that held the remnants of cheeses.

Haymitch, on staggering his way in, hung over, and seeing his prodigies lying half hazard on the sofa happily descending into some sort of food coma, simply shrugs.

"Well, I see I have two tributes after my own heart." and he helps himself to one of the less appetising looking cakes before switching on the television on the wall. All feelings of selfish delight have now turned me queasy, most likely from a mixture eating too much and the thought of sharing any personality aspect similar to Haymitch.

"Right you two, time to see who you're up against." We both sit up and my head immediately goes dizzy, regret now sinking in.

One by one we watch as each reaping from each district is displayed on screen. It starts off in ours, with who from district twelve being less in demand in the capital social circles and works its way to the top. I see myself walk onto the stage and I can see how actually my demeanour isn't too weak, I don't look too hopeless. Poor Georgina does though. She's quivering from start to finish.

Slowly we move through the districts.

'DISTRICT ELEVEN' the TV announces.

'FOR THE GIRLS – AUBREY LINDLE'

Aubrey must be the oldest you can be as she looks as if she knew already, gives the person next to her a squeeze and walks steadily onto the stage. Already I admire her without knowing anything else. The boy, I didn't pay attention to his name, is less impressive, but equally as calm.

The two from District ten both kick up a fuss, as do nine but then things start to relax at District eight.

'DISTRICT SEVEN'

Every so often Haymitch feigns a useful comment with just enough lack of enthusiasm to tell us that no comment will ever be useful to us. We are the least prepared of everyone and that is perfectly clear from every other districts' slightly larger stomach, or slightly more composed nod of confirmed effort to fight.

'DISTRICT SIX'

'ROSE FINERDAN'

From here on it's clear that each tribute that is called on stage is only going to look even more skilled and lethal than the last.

'JARON FORN'

My stomach has slowly begun to twist and churn making my whole body ache with the irritation. The lemon flavouring is now a sickly reminder of my fault. I wish I hadn't eaten so much, stayed calm and just allowed myself what I could handle.

'DISTRICT FIVE'

I want to excuse myself so that I can go and lie down on my bed and moan out some of my pain in private but to leave now would be as if admitting that I was too scared to watch the line-up of potential killers and not that I may burst from overconsumption.

'DISTRICT FOUR'

Haymitch has run out of hints and tricks for the Career tributes now. After each one lines up he simply nods to the ground as if to confirm he knew it would be this bad.

'DISTRICT THREE'

My head is starting to feel the full of effects of the nausea that has set in my stomach like a stone. I'm stuck in a state of both satisfaction and regret.

'LADIES FIRST – DIANA KLIPFORTH'

A girl that looks similar to the last two we've seen only bouncier, more excited. She practically runs on stage, her long ponytail swishing as she throws her fists in the air in empowerment. I look down at the floor, not wanting to see her strong male counterpart.

'NOW THE BOYS – HAYDEN RINDON'

Haymitch is watching me and I can feel him struggling to think of words. He must have been a big feller.

'I VOLUNTEER!'

This makes me look up. Though volunteering isn't that rare in the better off districts it's obviously not expected by the crowd as a ripple of gasps is just heard in the camera and heads frantically turn to see who it is.

'I VOLUNTEER IN HIS PLACE'

The voice rings out again. My eyes widen.

 _It can't be._

The figure briskly rushes to the front pulling Hayden behind him, who looks more perplexed than the rest of the crowd. The figure continues to move until he's on the stage and in front of the microphone.

 _No._

I don't know when I stood up. Or if I said any of it out loud.

'ALRIGHT, CALM DOWN, WE ARE EAGER TO PROVE OURSELVES AREN'T WE. AND YOU MUST BE?'

 _Please no._

'CALEB KNIGHT'

In an instant I'm down on my hands and knees, vomiting the entire contents of my stomach onto the freshly buffed carpet. It's true what they say, be careful what you wish for.


End file.
